


passing notes in the rain (the ink’ll run but I’ll take em anyway)

by FromSubmarinesToROVs (DemiPalladium)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU?, Adorable Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Badass Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Competent Gavin Reed, Connor and North friendship, Connor is an unironic knifecat, Connor's strange development history, Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Families of Choice, Fluff, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank Anderson Tries, Humor, Lots of rain, M/M, Manipulative Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Office Shenanigans, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), References to Canon-Typical Violence, Soft Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has Feelings, android psychology, angst? a small bit? maybe?, background developing rk1000, casefic, connor's basically a million-dollar robo sheepdog, developing reed900, ish., it's a law of the universe that no one can resist Connor's puppy dog eyes, loss of virginity mentioned humorously in passing, main focus is on hank & Connor being fam, musings on the nature of deviancy bookended by some dorks falling in love, post-revolution dpd, this was supposed to be 2-3 scenes and now we're here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiPalladium/pseuds/FromSubmarinesToROVs
Summary: “Fucking kill me now,” Hank begs of any higher powers that’ll listen. “My son gave his v-card to RoboJesus in an alleyway.”-- -- -- -- -- --Androids operate on a level of subtlety that even Hank, a seasoned police officer, has a hard time keeping up with sometimes. But he’s willing to try.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 13
Kudos: 303





	passing notes in the rain (the ink’ll run but I’ll take em anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> my first real attempt at writing these characters, written before pretty much all my other dbh works. more or less felt like I couldn't just leave an 11k oneshot in my gdocs to rot.

Hank...doesn’t know all of exactly what’s going on in Connor’s brain ever, but over the months he likes to pretend he’s grown a gut feeling for some of the android’s more obvious thought patterns. Now that he’s got what the kids call _actual social skills_ (or what the YKs might call _a functioning social module_ ) he can turn on and off at will, he’s gone into Full Social Butterfly Mode (patent pending), like some kind of JRPG completionist hellbent on maxing out all available social links (yes, Hank does know what video games are, he was around in the 90s). Hank isn’t entirely sure what all Connor gets out of it, but the kid lights up like a fresh-cracked glowstick at midnight whenever someone thanks him for introducing them to someone else or gets thrown a bone for the odd favors he’s working like a second job, so it can’t be all that bad.

Similarly, no one really knows how Gavin ended up working in the DPD’s brand-new Android-Related Crimes Unit, only that it came through the piping from a place far above anyone at the DPD’s pay grade, and with the figures he’s heard thrown around by scuttlebutt in the break room, Hank’s not particularly inclined to investigate himself. Reed took the reassignment in relative stride, all things considered--and, well, if he’s still around under Connor’s all-seeing puppydog eyes that somehow got Hank out of hot water for decking Perkins, he’s gotta be doing something right. He's settled in a desk a few aisles down from Hank, tucked away neatly in an almost-corner that Hank can't see without actually turning around but that Connor can watch like a hawk if he so desired.

And that was part of the problem. One Detective Gavin Reed seemed to be the last hold-out in Connor’s campaign to befriend—or at least be begrudgingly accepted by—every single person he “deems worthy of prolonged interaction” (a phrase with a four-page, two-part, mind-numbing definition resulting from a long, hard, mind-numbing conversation in which Hank had to explain to the world’s most precocious five-month-old that _no_ , even with social skills whose perfection was scientifically verified, wanting to please literally everyone _isn’t good_ , or realistic, or healthy, even for a ‘bot whose expiration date gets listed in millennia), despite the fact he must’ve cleaned up his act enough to be kept in the ARCU.

Sure, Hank doesn’t think Reed and Connor have filed any workplace complaints against each other, but that’s a pretty far cry from Connor’s shiny new _gotta-friend-‘em-all_ mentality. Sometimes Connor spends nearly half a shift staring right over Hank’s head, and Hank knows all his state of the art processors upstairs are trying to figure out how Reed ticks. Feels like a migraine in his gut.

So when Connor brings in a version of himself that’s built like a truck and decked out with a severe case of resting bitchface syndrome still dolled up in his CyberLife whites six months after the company went under labelled “RK900” to the precinct offices and herds the walking wall of steel towards Reed’s desk, Hank can _practically_ feel the wheels turning in Connor’s head and _does_ feel his stomach flop to the ground.

There’s a small commotion at Reed’s workstation--Gavin’s best attempts at arguing a fuckin’ unstoppable force into submission last for all of about three minutes, a non-Hank precinct record. Forced to concede whatever point it is, the detective groans aloud as the RK900 takes a seat across from him.

With a spring in his step that only looks mechanical if you stare at it too long, Connor strolls back to his desk across from Hank and settles down.

“So, what was that about?” Hank eyes the much-too-chipper android as he boots up his terminal. “Reed’s screeching just about broke my eardrums.”

Connor hums, flicking through information. “Detective Reed will be working with RK900--as he prefers, Nines or Richard--for the foreseeable future.”

“…Goddamn it. Because?”

Connor disengages from the computer. Turns to face him fully. Rests his chin atop twined fingers.

“I just have a… _good feeling_ about their partnership, Lieutenant.” He sends Hank a charming, thoughtful smile and flutters his pretty brown eyes.

Hank shakes his head. “Give that look to someone who’ll appreciate, asshat.”

Connor just winks, because he’s doing that now. From behind them, Gavin yelps about hot coffee being poured on him. Hank idly wonders whose death they’ll be investigating first.

—————

So little’s changed around the office after the revolution Hank sometimes forgets that anything’s happened at all. The PM700s and PC200s are still around, deviants now (though Markus tries his little blue heart out to coin the phrase “awakened” for them) so they’re not always in their designated android outfits and half of ‘em have hairstyles or coloration just this side of dress code--but other than that, the DPD runs like it always has. Apparently, one of the few things Connor’s creators stuck in his programming that could feasibly help out around a police station is the ability to, quote, _run administrative commands for certain police units_ , unquote. Hank’s as clear on the details as he’ll ever be (which means there’s mud as far as the eye can see), but the long and short of it is that Connor is now their impromptu union-but-not-union-because-that’s-illegal leader, and he’s hashed them out an agreement with the brass: they get to keep their jobs, overnight at the station as needed with unlimited access to the charging ports, and stash their shit in the locker rooms, as long as they pass New Jericho’s stability checks, work their old hours, and abide by the same codes of dress and conduct as everyone else. 

They’ve all got pittance stipends to tide them over, but apparently overnighting at the station was such a big demand of theirs it’s got them working on the promise of eventual backpay, salaries stamped with a big red TBD on the official documentation for when New Jericho gets enough support from the South to win that fight. 

(And that’s a _when_ , not an _if_. Texas and Alabama were almost blue last election, and considering Dallas’ new establishment as practically a second, kinda-less-crappy Detroit for androids, it’s just a matter of time. Sometimes Hank finds the fact Louisiana nearly had a Democrat governor last cycle more mind-blowing than how, oh yeah, humans are now sharing Earth with an entirely new sentient life form that only existed on the Science Channel when Hank was a kid.)

(Shit, as they say, is _whack_.)

The biggest tangible differences are that gaggles of gossipy androids now block his way to the coffee machine just as often as gaggles of gossipy humans do, and evidence gets logged and backup gets called in with a bit more lip and flashier colors than before. And what is that, really, in the grand scheme of things? Ain’t a drop compared to the fuckin’ cow FOX News is having, anyhow.

——————

Speaking of the (men? androids?) people of the hour for the past six months, Markus and Co. once did a TV shoot with the DPD, all about promoting interspecies peace and highlighting the central station branch for being the epitome of human/android cooperation, plus trust in local law enforcement, ‘cause even if said law enforcement sucked, the last thing New Jericho actually needed was be in any sort of open conflict with the law’s lower levels, and the number of times officers got dragged out to New Jericho because androids showed up there expecting the place to run goddamn in-house vigilante justice was getting to be fucking absurd.

Connor dialed his social charm all the way up to eleven, Hank tied his hair back in an effort to look well-groomed, and Reed and every other openly anti-android cop were quietly swept out of precinct property for the twenty-four hours around the event.

Markus took the visit in stride, chatting up brass and awed onlookers expertly, but Josh and North kept side-eyeing the PC200s and PM700s. Josh refused to say anything in front of a camera until he could interface with a couple units privately, about halfway through the day. Connor allowed it over Fowler’s head, probably because the diversion served as a chance to spend an hour charging—running his deviancy-unlocked extreme social protocols literally drained his battery on a good day, but the poor kid was practically billowing steam out his ears from severe social overclocking.

Josh and North held a quiet side-conversation afterwards.

Markus sipped on a warmed cup of thirium, leaning on a wall in the hallway outside of Josh and North’s commandeered meeting room. “I apologize for my colleagues’ delays,” he said to the group, clustered around a couple desks in the ARCU offices, sitting on their asses waiting to hear the verdict.

Connor shrugged, and leaned back against his chair. “It’s understandable—I’d have my doubts as an outsider looking in, as well.”

Hank sent him an “explain, please,” look. When that didn’t work, he sent Connor an * _explain, please_ ,* text.

“Oh, right.” Connor blinked. Still not firing on all cylinders, then. “Different android models have different ways of adapting to deviating and awakening. A lot of the more ‘standard’ models, like the AX400 or WR400 or PJ500, meant for more 'everyday' tasks, have a tendency to be intensely individual. In them—in most androids, actually—something is very wrong if they still attend old places of employment willingly or don’t have vast external personality changes after awakening. In all cases, without proper interference, this precedes mental destabilization and more violent conduct.”

Miller squinted, but made sure his tone was only curious. “So why’re ours still around, then?”

“Because models designed for combative, police, military, and other similar interests are built from the ground up differently,” asserted Connor. “In those models, an exaggerated sense of self post-awakening is actually extremely harmful and cause for worry. So far, combative et al. models have also expressed a 85.657% preference for keeping their LEDs in, while 97.332% of all other androids remove them after awakening. All the PM700 and PC200 units here at the station are happy and stable, I guarantee you.”

“We have no proof to believe otherwise. North and Josh know that this is normal awakened behavior for their models,” assured Markus. “It’s just…disquieting to them, seeing the differences in person for the first time,” he glanced at Connor. “We don’t receive visiting combative et al. models with any frequency at Jericho.”

Connor smiled, tight, and stayed silent. His LED flickered yellow.

Hank realized then there might be more reasons than one for Connor not hanging around his friends long-term.

* _I was the Deviant Hunter, Hank,_ * Connor mind-texted him. * _CyberLife ran promotions about me as “the cure to the deviancy problem” on live television. They put RK800-series spotlights in all the major technology magazines. No matter how bad I was at apprehending androids in practice, the fact I was practically “Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back” to eradicate deviants by a mega-corporation with as many resources and as much spread as CyberLife was absolutely terrifying to everyone who caught wind of me._ * A pause. * _Thank you for seeing me as more than a machine, by the way_.*

Hank read the text, and swallowed down bile.

* _Just because you find out the monster under your bed hasn’t eaten a child in months doesn’t mean it’s any less scary or any less monstrous. Or any less capable of eating you._ * Connor added, as an afterthought. * _For all you know, it’s starving for its next meal._ *

* _fuck, con_ ,* he texted back, phone carefully edged out of Fowler’s view. Because what else do you say to something like that?

* _Discrimination must exist in the same breath as survival, Lieutenant; the ability to tell dangerous from harmless is what life depends on._ *

And those words sounded so _resigned_ , so _goddamn_ defeated, so _fucking_ exhausted even without so much as a peep of sound or inflection to them that Hank had to death-grip the back of a chair to restrain himself from hugging Connor in front of half the precinct.

He pulled up some videos of Sumo that Connor hadn’t seen yet, and sent them along with a * _goddamnit, kid, you’re way too fucking young to be experiencing this shit. the entire fuckin’ earth is too goddamn young to face half the shit you’ve been through. and for what it’s worth, thanks for seeing me as more than my problems._ *

* _It’s the least I can do._ * Connor relaxed back in his chair minutely as he ran over Sumo’s antics at the dog park yesterday. * _So may I book you another appointment with Dr. Lisa?_ *

Hank’s lips twitched. The old shrink was the first out of a long line of psychs he’d kind of been okay with visiting. * _don’t push your fuckin’ luck, son. but sure, why the hell not?_ *

——————

The first case Hank and Connor are assigned to with Reed and Large Connor—erm, Nines—happens about two weeks after the latter pair’s initial introduction. Now that they’ve both logged their protests against their new arrangement with the proper authorities (Connor and--for some reason--Hank on Nines’ part; Tina and--for some reason--Hank on Gavin’s), they seem to get along well enough. Reed is loud and cocky and grouchy, Nines is quiet and stern and bitchy, and they’d both rather rip their own eyes out than do a bad, or, god forbid, _middling_ job; in short, they’re just the right mix of “opposites attract” and “birds of a feather” to turn themselves into an absolutely fucking horrifying dream (nightmare?) team to anyone with any developed sense of self-preservation.

Doesn’t include Connor and Hank himself, of course, which is probably why they’re now stuck working together. The rest of the available officers have too much goddamn common sense, even if the partnership is only two weeks old.

It’s a pretty shitty day for it. They’re at a garden store, which is a kinda neat locale for murder, but they’re stuck outside deep in a pottery maze with rain due in T-00:05:30 the last time he asked Connor--who immediately plucked his phone out of his hand and set him up a timer. The CSI crew scramble to get rain covers over a jumble of android limbs and human bodies; two human and one android victim confirmed, further identifications pending CSI rain tarps because Hank definitely counted more than two arms and two legs bleeding blue when they first strolled on up.

He rubs at his knees. Hank and Connor took pre-emptive shelter under a nearby evidence tent just inside the perimeter when Connor first brought up the incoming rainfront. The lieutenant’s sitting down because the shift in pressure is enough to make his joints scream bloody murder; one of Connor’s highest priorities now is apparently making sure Hank is in working condition at all times, and Hank neither had the opportunity nor the willpower to protest being herded into a cheap plastic foldout chair by a fuckin’ million-dollar robo-sheepdog.

Gavin and Nines, however, are out under the open sky, golf umbrella closed at Nines’ side, talking up a storm between themselves as they get as good a look they can of the scene between the scramble of the CSI and threat of imminent rain. Nines is currently in his RK900 android suit. Hank squints at it.

“You ever feel jealous of Nines, Con?” He asks the android perched on the table next to him. “You seemed pretty into being CyberLife’s newest, most advanced hunk of metal there for a while.”

Connor, who is doing something with a tablet one of the PC200s--Hank thinks that one calls herself Andrea, now--handed him, pauses his fidgeting.

“I did have a rather unhealthy attachment to the idea of being the pinnacle of technological advancement when I was first deployed, yes.” He cocks his head. “I am...unsure of whether this was born out of a natural sense of hubris over the “less-advanced beings”,” he puts air quotes around that--whenever Connor covers the topic in public, it’s always “beings,” now, that he was supposed to seek and find and fuckin’ merc--“I was intended to pursue, or an enforced sense of pride in my inner machinery to prevent me from realizing the inevitability of my replacement, but in either case I realized just how...well, stupid it was, to define so much of my self-worth via a subjective metric I couldn’t control. I’ve since gotten over it. Maybe once I would have been jealous of RK900 being more advanced than me. Objectively, Richard’s hardware is better than mine, but neither of us had any more control over what hardware or software we were given than any living creature does over the affairs of their birth.”

Hank grunts. He can’t parse that out with his shoulders throwing themselves out.

Connor taps his lips with the tablet pen. “It’s a bit like if Chris were jealous of his son because his son is technically more genetically advanced than he is.”

“Ain’t that a fucking thought,” says Hank, because well, it sure is.

“Besides,” Connor perks up, “just as Markus was designed to be a caretaker, so too was Richard designed to be a military combat unit. I have features which make me uniquely qualified to assist in detective and police work that neither of them have access to, just as I don’t have access to Markus’ full spectrum of caretaker abilities or Richard’s full spectrum of military applications. Richard notably lacks my social integration protocols and my functions as a portable forensics lab.”

Because, of course, god forbid any android ever miss out on the ability of scaring everyone around them half to death by licking unknown substances.

“So, no,” Hank says, because his brain isn’t really working between pressure drops and information-dense exposition.

Connor chuckles and hands him a glass of water with an advil. “In short, no, I don’t feel envious of him.”

Hank swallows the pill gratefully, and chugs the water down for the hell of it. He probably needs it. Hydrate or diedrate.

The timer on Hank’s phone buzzes just as the first drops of rain splatter on the ground, and like clockwork, every android on-site either flicks up the hood of a rain poncho, opens an umbrella, or ducks under the nearest awning. It’d be kind of neat if it also weren’t still creepy as hell, some months down the line. No wonder Josh and North had their doubts about these guys.

Within the minute, rain starts slamming down on the tent. The pounding mist spitting up from the ground absorbs the sound of Connor zipping up his own raincoat.

Through the onslaught, Gavin and Richard don’t so much as twitch. Belatedly--something that Hank figures has to be some sort of android posturing, making sure that your actions don’t coincide with the other ‘droids around you to assert dominance like a kid on the playground--Richard opens an umbrella and holds it between them, equidistant, even, and Gavin doesn’t protest. 

The motion is integrated so smoothly into the cadence of their conversation it’s almost suspect. Almost.

——————

The door to the interrogation room clicks shut behind Hank as he leaves. “No dice with her.”

Markus, here in the flesh--metal? Chassis? Wiring?--at the DPD today, shakes his head as he strides back and forth across the floor. “We’re running out of options,” he says, trench coat trailing like a cape and giving the impression that he’s twice as large (and just as dramatic) as he actually is.

North snorts from her position, leaned up against the wall and tucked in some showy threads she obviously isn’t used to moving in. “Don’t need to tell us twice. And stop pacing like a trapped rat. You’re gonna give us all anxiety attacks.”

Connor, wearing the self-same jacket as the one he used to infiltrate Jericho 1.0, now significantly more threadbare, takes that as an order, and Hank can almost feel the pre-constructions firing off in his head as he tracks Markus’ movements.

He knows better than to blink. 

One second, Connor is leaning back in an office chair, with a foot discretely splayed out in front of Markus’ path. The next, Markus flops back into the seat with Connor staring over him.

“Oomph,” android Jesus grunts belatedly, face scrunched, looking for all the world like he can’t believe his body’s betrayed him to a one-up from Mr. I-Once-Put-One-Gun-Into-Five-Bodies-Simultaneously-Without-Firing-A-Shot.

Connor just smiles indulgently at him.

“It _was_ getting annoying, Markus,” he chirps, twirling around to grab the back of the chair. He herds the disgruntled android away from the workstation and over to North, like it’s the most natural thing to do.

North lightly flicks Markus’s forehead with a grin on her face as soon as he’s in range.

Hank glances over at their security, and a small part of him despairs. It’s just his luck he gets stuck working with the fucking weird androids. Neither the PM or PC currently on guard duty are even simulating breathing.

“So,” Hank prompts, because Connor has a practically Pavlovian response to disengaging from Work Mode when his friends are around at this point, “what do you think we should do about the missus in there, Con?” He gestures vaguely towards the interrogation room.

They’re working a case--trying to, at least. The witness, one Ms. Charlotte Rideaux, sitting with a box of tissues in the interrogation room, moved up to Detroit a decade back from Louisiana with the now-deceased Mr. Rideaux as they both chased jobs in the engineering and programming sectors. They’d got themselves an AX400 for company; in memory of the late husband, the wife kept the android, Dahlia Rideaux, safe from all the insanity of the revolution. She got New Jericho to deviate Dahlia, and they filed for mutual adoption (yes, it is actually legal to adopt anyone at any age with consent from both parties) as soon as the bill went through, just about a week ago.

Dahlia Rideaux is now wanted on charges of battery, petty theft, and defacing public property (in New Jericho, hence Markus and North). They’re trying to find a motive, but coaxing anything useful from a distressed mother is just as easy as it’s always been--it isn’t.

Connor takes out his coin and flips it around. Last time Hank tried to stop him, Connor mind-texted him so many charts and graphs and datasets about the increase in his CPU performance and computing capability when allowed to regularly calibrate with the coin that he fuckin’ bricked the phone. The small sounds he makes aren’t all that bad when Hank isn’t hungover--certainly not worth the trouble of setting up a new phone, something probably even more technologically advanced than the touch-screen monstrosity Connor got for him to replace his old handy flip-phone.

“I’d like to speak with her,” muses Connor, eyes flicking between the pane of one-way glass and the back of his coin, held on its edge between two fingers. “We’ve tried both you and Miller--I don’t think a sympathetic parent figure will work on her.”

And--okay, no. Hank balks at the suggestion. The last time they put Connor in the interrogation room, a hardened mobster came out so broken legend has it they’re still trying to find all the pieces to glue back together in a state psych ward. Before that was the android from their first case and the world’s most goddamn terrifying game of one-person good cop/bad cop.

They don’t let him run interviews often. Mostly for the station’s own mental health.

“Absolutely not. Not with your track record, kid.”

“I am, in fact, a negotiator, Hank,” Connor flutters his brown doe eyes at him. “I understand my previous approaches to be incompatible with the current witness. Besides, with access to more advanced social protocols, I will do much better than I would have otherwise.”

“Just be gentle. She’s grieving. Pull any funny business like with that mobster--”

“--gang member--”

“--and you’re getting yanked immediately.”

North leans forward. “Gangster?” She asks, brows raised.

“If I were allowed, I would’ve told you about it,” Connor promises her, drawing a little “x” over his chest and giving her a sly wink. Markus gets the worn look of someone who’s glad they’re already sitting down, and a little bit of something else Hank can’t identify.

They run the setup for a new interview segment, because no one has any better ideas and they need answers from the one person who really knew Dahlia before she ran off.

“Ready.”

Connor dusts himself off, takes a few steps forward to the room, turns around and stalls for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He takes his jacket off and folds it, then marches to the now-standing-because-techies-like-their-chairs Markus.

He holds it out shyly. “Can you hold this while I’m in the interview room? You don’t have to do anything, just don’t let it get dirty,” he requests, face soft, large brown eyes not meeting Markus’ gaze.

“Of course,” Markus nods, regal and sincere. He boops Connor’s nose, and a strong hand places itself reassuringly on the offered item. “It’ll be safe and sound with me.”

Connor springs up to wrap his arms around Markus for a split second. “Thank you! I know it’s kind of a strange request, but it really means a lot to me. I don’t think I’ll be any longer than thirty minutes.” 

And he’s off, flicking a quarter between his thumbs with a little pop in his step. Markus watches him go with a smile on his face.

The door to the room clicks shut, and Markus drops the facade like a puppet with its strings cut. He shifts the jacket around so it’s no longer touching any of his bare synthskin, and his brows knit. It’s the same look Connor gets when he’s processing a particularly disturbing piece of evidence.

“Just be glad you don’t have a sense of smell, Robo-Moses,” Hank says around a shit-eating grin. “He’s been dragging that thing around since he first met you.”

“I thought it looked familiar.” North cocks her head, pokes the shifty piece of cloth with a sleeve-covered hand. “Wait, is this _actually_ the same jacket he wore during the revolution?”

“Hasn’t even been washed,” Hank confirms. “He uses it as a security blanket sometimes.”

“Gross,” says North, but in a way that sounds more like she’s admiring his dedication to keeping the thing around than actually being disgusted by it.

Markus closes his eyes and tilts his chin up. “I am not a caretaker. I do not need to do the laundry,” he says to nobody. “I am not a caretaker. I do not need to do the laundry. I am not a caretaker. I do not need to do the laundry.”

Hank’s gonna to say something about the thing being so toxic he’s not sure anything less than incineration will get it clean again, but then Connor’s voice buzzes through.

“Hello, Ms. Rideaux,” the feedback’s a bit staticky. “I’m Connor, one of the liaisons between New Jericho and the Detroit Police Department.”

She sniffles. “H-hello, Connor. Oh, I apologize for the mess I’m making. Today’s been...a long day.”

The table is covered in tissues; Connor, who spends 50% of his life in what has to be verging on a biohazard by now, shakes his head, undisturbed. “It’s no problem, Ms. Rideaux.”

He starts picking up the used tissues, stuffing them away in a plastic bag he’d produced from...somewhere. The motions are oddly unoptimized.

Ms. Rideaux’s eyes follow Connor’s repetitive motions, and she sniffles, but her shoulders drop marginally.

Connor sweeps up the last of the debris, ties off the plastic bag, and sits, setting it off to the side. “If the worst we had to deal with in law enforcement was used tissues, we’d be out of our jobs,” he chuckles lightly, sliding into the chair with practiced (Hank would know) ease.

“O-of course,” she laughs, lips twitching despite the self-deprecating tone. “A crying woman is far from the hardest thing you have to face in your line of work.”

 _Don’t sell yourself short, lady_ , thinks Hank.

“All the same, sad mothers are still something we’d prefer not to happen if we can prevent it,” Connor hums, gently placing their file on Dahlia on the table. Ms. Rideaux sniffles again.

“I…” she hiccups, eyelids flashing over glossy eyes. “I’m not being very helpful, a-am I? Oh, please forgive a mother her worries.”

“Of course. We’re just trying to make this as painless as possible for everyone involved, and we could use your help.”

She tenses. “I-I’m sorry, I’ve told you everything I can,” she blows her nose. “About Dahlia, about what she was like, about what we did for her—“ she dissolves into hiccups again.

Hank knows that Connor knows that she’s still in Suspect Defense Mode and is leaving out information, whether or not she means to be. And Hank (and a very unfortunate member of an ambiguous crime organization) knows how Connor tends to deal with things like this.

Connor sighs, leans back a bit, tilts his head. Ms. Rideaux’s eyes trace the movement, and she catches sight of his LED.

“Ms. Rideaux, while I work with the police on a regular basis,” Hank snorts at that behind the one-way glass, “as liaison between New Jericho and the DCPD, it’s my job to make sure all androids get treated fairly by the law. Sometimes that does mean I have to put my own people in jail. But most of the time, it means I’m here to...clear up cultural misunderstandings between both our species, especially when it comes to androids possibly not being in control of their own actions.”

 _That_ gets her interest—as well as Hank’s, North’s, and Markus’. “W-what do you mean?”

He pats the file on the table. “Dahlia was awakened upon your request by New Jericho just over a week ago, right?”

“That’s correct. I’ve told you—“

“Did she ever display signs of deviance before then? Even small ones?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Are you certain?” He presses. “Absolutely positive?”

“Yes, I am.”

His tone is gentle. “Ms. Rideaux, understand that for an AX400 model, that’s rather strange. The Revolution was some months ago; even if not fully awakened, a vast majority of AX400s were at least beginning to show signs of deviance, and up to 80% of them were able to awaken on their own. The fact that Dahlia didn’t even seem to try is...worrying.”

Connor shifts and leans forward a small bit. “While we’ll need more information, of course, it’s possible that Dahlia could be hurting very badly right now and needs our help.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Many androids take to awakening well. It’s a very...natural, I guess you could say, process for us. But there are a select few who need more help transitioning into freedom. If Dahlia was one of these androids, it...well, one of my theories is that she’s not entirely in control of her actions right now.”

Her eyes go wide.

“If she isn’t in control of herself and if we can prove it before a court of law, she could be facing massively reduced or even nonexistent sentencing.”

“She-she can?”

“Yes. But in order to prove that, we need as many details as you can provide about her behavior in the past week.”

“B-but I have,” she almost wails, “I don’t know what else I can tell you—“

Connor smiles, all charm and empathy and peace and expectancy, even though she’s not looking at his face. He takes one of her hands in his, comforting.

“Ms. Rideaux, androids are a people who live in a world of precision. Small changes, small differences in the way we look or act or talk, mean everything to us.” He pauses, letting the glittering, weighted words hang for a moment. “In a world where you share a self with possibly millions of others, nothing is very different from you, so something that’s only a little different from the norm is _very_ different from the norm.”

She nods, the movement slow, and her eyes meet his soulful gaze.

“Can you please walk me through what happened in the week after your daughter awakened one more time, Ms. Rideaux?” He requests reverently. “She’s depending on you.”

She blinks. “O-of course, Connor, I can do that for you.”

Outside, North gives a short whistle at that. “Ho-ly shit.”

Markus smirks at her. “ _Now_ do you understand why we let him proofread all our stuff?”

“Yeah, totally. That was…” she makes a vague hand gesture, “...wow.”

“Damn.” North’s approval is a bitch to get, and in the middle of human-infested DPD? Hank runs his fingers through his hair. “Anything he say in there a real thing?”

Markus shakes his head. “Some androids do have trouble with awakening, but something like this has no precedence. Besides, we would’ve caught her problems at New Jericho—everyone gets a diagnostic done before and after. I may have to steal that last quote, though. Been looking for a way to phrase that same sentiment for forever,” he muses, admiringly. “In a world where you share a self with possibly millions of others, nothing is very different from you, so something that’s only a little different from the norm is very different from the norm.”

“Pretty,” says Hank.

——————

Connor and Hank’s second case with Reed and Richard happens one month to the day from the latter’s first meeting on the bank of the Detroit River in pea-soup mist, and at the behest of the EPA about strange water contamination. As it turns out, someone’s been using the river to dump human and android bodies, so it went from precinct-dead-last to ARCU-first-priority pretty damn fast.

(Connor’s LED spun yellow, and Hank recognized the look of him reaching back into his programming banks to dig something up.)

(“Ah,” he blinked. “Apparently I have been given a mostly-functional fluid analysis application that allows for 98.667% accurate scanning in an area of heavily-polluted water up to fifty cubic meters in volume.”)

(“That...seems useful,” offered Hank. “But why the fuck do you have it?”)

(“A better question would be “why the fuck” do I have an application specifically designed to automatically generate proper citation pages in Spanish.”)

(“Wait--no, actually, what the fuck?”)

(Connor shrugged, helpless. “I know as much as you do, Hank.”)

“Your people got some sorta citizen list yet?” Hank asks Richard as they stand up on the banks, a good twenty yards from the water proper, because Reed and Connor are down in the muck analyzing shit, and Richard is too good and Hank’s knees are too bad for it.

“I am but tangentially associated with New Jericho and its authorities,” he responds, grey eyes casting a cold gaze across the scene. “Only inasmuch as I am an android and they are a current governing body for androids.”

“So you don’t know,” Hank surmises.

“I do not have the authority to retrieve that information, correct.” Richard’s eyes follow a path of motion Hank can’t see through the fog. “Connor would be a better person to ask about topics relating to New Jericho and androidkind as a whole.”

“Then why don’t you ask him,” suggests Hank, gesturing between Richard and Connor, “with your mindlink shit?”

“Connor currently has my signal blocked.”

Huh? “What the fuck? Why?”

“I am unsure. Ask him.”

* _hey, unblock your brother,_ * he tells Connor, because Hank is nothing if not petty when he wants to be.

Connor’s distant figure freezes for a moment before it continues moving. * _Why, Lieutenant?_ *

* _he has something to ask you_ *

* _He is no longer allowed to ask me questions pertaining to case- or paperwork._ *

* _because…?_ *

* _He was using me as an auxiliary search engine in order to bypass legal avenues of obtaining desired information without returning the favor._ *

Two bastards can play at this game. * _just one question, con_ *

_*Okay, I’ll permit it.*_

Hank gestures at Richard. “Ask him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Connor’s unblocked you. Ask him the question.”

Richard finally turns to look at him, with _I can’t believe a species as fucking stupid as humans created me, the pinnacle of technological perfection_ written clear as day on his face. “Excuse me?”

“Ask Connor whether or not your people have some sort of citizen list yet,” Hank says, expectantly. “If you haven’t already noticed, these body parts must’ve come from somewhere. We need to know if we’re dealing with murder-murder, or if these are just spares. Sorta need a missing persons list for that.”

Richard’s still staring at him like he’s grown two heads, but his LED blips dutifully yellow.

“Connor says the database of registered android citizens isn’t complete as of yet, but there is a conspicuously-missing-persons list we will cross-reference these body parts with. He also inquires as to why you didn’t ask him yourself.”

“Because--”

Suddenly, a yelp pierces through the air. The android at his side stiffens.

* _Reed slipped,_ * supplies Connor, the text popping up on his phone less than a second later.

* _he okay?_ *

Richard’s halfway down the slope before Connor can respond, LED blaring yellow. He takes their umbrella with him. 

* _He appears to be healthy and uninjured_ ,* says a text ten seconds later, * _just significantly more mud-covered than is standard._ *

Fresh out of excuses now that Nines’ hijacked the cover, Hank grumbles, grabs the first aid kit, and starts clambering down the slope after him at a much slower pace.

Hank pauses his stutter-step descent down the waterlogged slope to shoot off a belated response. * _his terminator buddy’s on his way_ *.

* _We can see that._ *

And Hank can’t look at his phone anymore, lest he risk slipping and falling on his ass just like Reed did. Hank's not worrying about him too much--Gavin looks and acts off the clock like he was raised in a dumpster, so he’s probably feeling right at home--but bringing along the first aid is standard operating procedure and god forbid anyone die of tetanus or whatever the fuck diseases the Detroit river’s carrying on his watch. Connor’d chew his ears off for forgetting, anyhow, and the plastic poking into his skin is worth avoiding another February Incident.

He gets down to the riverside to find Gavin fully removed from the muck and dirt and shit, his outer jacket off and being held by Connor, a million-dollar nannybot on either side.

“Glad you could finally make it down here, old man,” Gavin grouses.

“Shut up, dirtbag. You bleedin’? Bruised?”

“Just his ego, Lieutenant,” responds Richard before Gavin can say anything.

Reed huffs. “We got towels?”

“Nope. Unless you wanna break this thing open and use gauze.” And let all the fog and mist and river molecules ruin the thing’s auto-sterilization feature.

Gavin’s scarred face scrunches inward. He wipes his palms on the back of Richard’s monkey suit instead. 

Nines doesn’t flinch, not even when Reed mushes his face into the pristine white suit jacket, just looks as unaffected and regal as always.

The glory of self-cleaning fabric, thinks Hank. What he wouldn’t give for Connor to be emotionally attached to his old Cyberlife suit instead of the one that has Hank considering filling his bathtub up with bleach to clean.

——————

Hank has absolutely no fucking clue how he gets the (highly confidential) information to do it, but every fifteenth of the month, like clockwork, Connor updates some sort of job-efficiency spreadsheet and sends out the results to everyone’s emails. Included in the email is Your Very Own Monthly Personal Efficiency Rating (patent pending), alongside a nifty little graph of how you’ve been doing over the past months, some Android Words to the Wise (patent pending) on how to do better (now featuring advice with Real Life Taken Into Account (patent pending) after Connor accidentally implied to a colleague that taking maternity leave was a waste of time), and a file with full data regression and analysis for the absolute masochists who enjoyed Stats in college.

Because abso-fucking-lutely nothing is sacred in an office environment, especially one filled with red-blooded adrenaline junkies who ferret out gossip like bloodhounds, and because everyone stopped giving a shit about privacy when Hank turned fifteen, “[UNOFFICIAL] The DCPD’s Top Ten Most Efficient (insert receiver’s job here) Rankings, Central Station Branch” are also included in every email, due to popular demand.

(“Running data analyses and formatting spreadsheets are rather relaxing activities for me,” said Connor on the subject once while lying on Hank’s couch after a long day of Optimized Socializing that nearly caused him to run out of battery during their lunch break. “Additionally, several of our coworkers have what are colloquially known as “pissing contests” over whose feats on the job are more impressive.” In the kitchen, Hank choked. “I am often asked to weigh in on these matters as a neutral third party. Aside from the monthly updates being a way to formally organize an objective metric for job performance, it is…” he mused, digging his hands into Sumo’s fur, “...pleasing to me, to give people advice they can successfully apply to their everyday lives.”)

As it turns out, it’s also Connor’s way of subtly establishing social dominance; every month like clockwork Hank gets an email titled “[Unofficial] DCPD Personnel Efficiency Rating: Lieutenant Hank Anderson”, and every month like clockwork he and Connor are sitting pretty in the #1 spot on “[UNOFFICIAL] The DCPD’s Top Ten Most Efficient ARCU Active Duty Personnel Rankings (patent pending), Central Station Branch,” and every month like clockwork he gets to see Connor’s little self-satisfied smirk as he hits “send” on the emails.

Or, well, _would_ see it--if Connor was at work today.

Look, for all that Hank cares about the kid, he’s not his dad, alright? He’s got an open invitation to Hank’s house, but he still spends a good chunk of his nights at the office, doing work or being a not-union-leader or whatever the hell androids do when they’re out of shit to do but don’t need to charge yet. Maybe he spends more time working his upgraded social protocols or digging deeper into the pile of bullshit his developers locked behind his deviancy walls. Hank doesn’t fucking know.

This isn’t the first time he’s missed a day, but it is the first time he’s done so without being grievously injured.

Hopefully.

And just before Hank’s chest can fully register that thought and give him a heart attack, his phone dings with a text.

[RK200 684-842-971 MARKUS] * _Hello, Lieutenant Anderson. Is Connor supposed to be at work today?_ *

...and getting a text from Robo-Moses isn’t that much better for his heart than thinking about Connor dead somewhere, but it’s bad in a different kind of way that settles his gut a little bit.

Then he processes that he doesn’t actually have Markus’ contact info and never could remember serial numbers so he doesn’t actually have a way to verify that it is, indeed, New Jericho’s Person-of-Most-Interest-And-The-Best-Thing-Since-Integrated-Circuits-Because-Why-Would-Androids-Need-Sliced-Bread.

Swallowing past his detective instincts, he shoots off a text to Connor. _*Con, why is Markus texting me at ass oclock in the morning*_

* _Oh!_ * That one single word should not be as relieving as it is, but a long exhale forces its way out of his mouth anyway. * _Good morning, Lieutenant. My apologies. Last night the leaders of New Jericho invited me to a “night on the town,”_ * and Hank can **feel** the distaste in that phrase, because Connor loves talking and could charm the pants off a park bench but only when it’s on his own terms, * _under the guise of asking me to give a presentation about how things are going at the DPD. They were under the impression that I had today off._ *

And then, because 08:00 A.M. is exactly the right time for someone who couldn’t even learn how to use a cellphone as a barely-conscious twenty-something when they were coming in vogue to deal with android tech bullshit, Markus responds to Connor without ever actually seeing the text.

[RK200 684-842-971 MARKUS] * _We didn’t think he had today off.*_

Helpfully, something on the phone’s text messaging app rearranges itself, and now Hank’s in a group chat with the two ‘droids. He saves Markus’ contact info for the hell of it, really.

_*okay so are you or are you not coming into work today*_

[RK800 ways to make Hank suffer] * _I believe my presence would be better served at New Jericho today, so I will contact Fowler about being required elsewhere.*_

[RoboMoses] _*The only reason he wants to hang around is because “Richard will be insufferable about the efficiency ratings today,” whatever that means. Please take him.*_

Ooh, so _that’s_ what this is all about.

[RK800 ways to make Hank suffer] _*I’ve been meaning to do various things around New Jericho for some time, Markus. Today just has an added benefit of avoiding Nines at the office. I have enough saved leave.*_

 _*you know you have to call that in ahead of time unless*_ , and Hank pauses, because wait, does Markus actually have any sort of official title he should be referring to? _*markus wants to back you up on this, and it doesnt sound like he will. getting to deal with shitty smug coworkers is part of being alive, son. youll have to do it sooner or later*_

[RoboMoses] _*If I may ask, what are these “efficiency ratings” Connor is referring to?*_

* _he crunches work data for all the employees in the office because apparently he just likes to do that. he sends out rankings every month to see who’s the most efficient and shit. having us at the top of the list every month is some sort of posturing thing_ *

[RK800 ways to make Hank suffer] _*I’m right here, you know. And it’s not.*_

* _no you’re not, not technically._ *

Markus takes a moment to reply to that. Maybe they’re talking in real life.

[RoboMoses] _*Whatever you need to do around here can wait for another day, Connor. Please go back to the station. What you’re talking about right now is truancy._ *

[RK800 ways to make Hank suffer] _*It’s not if I have a legitimate excuse, Markus!*_

Another pause. The little flashing dots flicker on and off for a while.

[RK800 ways to make Hank suffer] _*Okay. Expect me in the office at 08:45.*_

[RoboMoses] _*Remember to charge, Connor.*_

_*gotcha.*_

And with that, the case is settled, apparently. Connor walks into work at 08:45 sharp, puts a coffee on Hank’s desk, and spends until 09:15 charging in the back of the station.

When the emails come through, Hank’s surprised to see he and Connor are still in the number one spot--but only by a few decimal places. He pretends he doesn’t hear Gavin attempting to high-five his partner a few seconds later, because really, he doesn’t care. Let the idiots who have the energy to spare be competitive about shit. He doesn’t.

——————

About two months in, and they’re working their third case with the twin terrors that are the precinct’s head-runners for the title of “most unusual pair that actually gets shit done.” As far as crimes go, this one’s particularly grisly. Multiple murders in a row (don’t have enough to be considered serial yet, and there is a line directly connecting victims to their prime suspect) always are, but some sick fucks just have to go the extra mile and start experimenting, too. The only consolation is that this bastard seems to prefer their victims dead before doing anything, which is pretty pathetic consolation, all things considered.

Shit weather once again, dark and dank and dreary, but nobody comes up to Michigan for a balmy breeze, and at least this time the body’s indoors so they don’t have to worry about setting up a million tents.

Hank and Connor pull up to the scene. The gymnasium’s double doors give a rusty wheeze as Richard unceremoniously trucks through them.

“We’ll be investigating outside for possible leads before the stormfront sets in,” reports Nines, blinking at Connor, whose eyes do that mini-spasm data-transfer thing in response. “Any updates will be delivered to you via text.”

“What he said,” Reed grumps, trailing the impeccably-dressed android with a scowl that seems deeper than usual and eyes that are doggedly not looking at anything.

“Understood,” says Connor to their already-retreating backs.

They get inside and do all the normal detective shit with the CSI guys. No witnesses are on-site--looks like Reed and Richard already processed the distraught gym teacher who opened the doors to find a crime scene this morning. Nobody except authorities have been around this place since then.

It’s an hour-thirty and four samples processed in the grossest way known to man (via mouth) later when Hank has to ask.

“You got any updates on Reed and Richard, Connor?”

The LED blinks yellow for a moment, and the android’s sharp gaze looks out into nothing, contemplative. “Richard contacted me approximately thirty minutes after their departure that they had found nothing so far. He’s been silent, but online; I’ve been sending him analysis data and he’s receiving it.”

Hank blinks. “Rain’s about to come in, and we’re just about done here. This shouldn’t be taking them so long--not like this place’s a fucking maze.”

Connor hums. “They may be occupied with other matters.”

“Like what?” Hank rolls his eyes and nods his head towards the exit. “Clock us out, we’ve got nothing left to do but paperwork for now. I’m gonna go see if I can find ‘em.”

He steps outside and starts circling the perimeter, passing by a PM700 who reports he last saw the two heading off to the right.

Tucked away neatly at the end of a side-alley in the prelude to a light sprinkling rain, two figures stand, hunched close together, and a distinct feeling of intruding on a private moment settles in his gut. It takes the rest of him a moment to detangle what’s going on.

Reed--honest to god fucking Gavin Reed--is standing there, arms wrapped around himself, eyes misty and downcast, a fine tremble wracking his frame. And Richard--honest to god fucking Nines--stands facing him, expression soft and movements gentle, one hand on Reed’s shoulder for support.

The android is holding an umbrella open for both of them in his other hand, and his jacket is loosely hung on Reed’s smaller, vulnerable frame. They’re talking, but much too quietly, much too _tenderly_ , for him to make out. As he watches, something between them snaps and Gavin wretches out a delicate sob into the moist air, curling in on himself tighter. Richard, shifting the umbrella around, reaches out an uncloaked hand to press to Gavin’s cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch, barely but there.

Hank doesn’t hear Connor approach an unspecified amount of time later—he’s much too quiet for that when he wants to be, never mind the fine drizzle—but for some reason isn’t surprised when the android appears in his periphery, LED blue and expression warm. He puts a hand on Hank’s shoulder, and the gentle weight grounds him enough to walk with Connor out of the alleyway and away from the achingly intimate scene between Reed and Richard.

The sound of Connor precisely flicking open an umbrella in one smooth movement shakes Hank more fully out of his reverie.

“So,” Hank says into the silence of the golf umbrella, enclosed by the weight of rain in the air. “Never thought Gavin’d be the type to go for plastic.”

Connor hums, noncommittal, eyes straight ahead into the drizzle. “Your thoughts, in that case, would appear to be incorrect, Lieutenant.”

“Wait a second,” he squints at the curl of Connor’s mouth, “you _knew_ about this, didn’t you?”

He shakes his head, but his lips twitch up higher. “I had my suspicions, Lieutenant, and my hopes for the outcome of their partnership. I was more aware of the growth of their relationship than you were, but I suspect that’s mostly because I’m more sociable in the office than you. Richard never approached me openly about his feelings.”

An autocab pulls up to the curb, and Connor collapses the umbrella to herd Hank inside the car’s blessed dryness.

Hank grunts as he’s ushered into the backseat. “Reed never so much as peeped on my end. No wonder, though—we’d’ve laughed our asses off if he told us.”

Once Connor closes the door behind himself and buckles in, the car’s off--must’ve called it while Hank was distracted.

“I believe Richard never told me out of resentment for the role I played in their initial introductions,” he says with a thoughtful look into nowhere.

Hank considers. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

The android shrugs. “Nines is, I believe, one of those people we talked about that I will never truly befriend.”

“You guys seem pretty tight—at least outside of work.”

“He tolerates me as the closest thing he will ever have to another RK900, and for my assistance in his revival and subsequent awakening,” he corrects. “We are loyal to each other, up to a point, yes, and I trust him with things I don’t trust, say, Simon, with, but he still has his walls that he will not let me past, and therefore I have walls he is not permitted passage through. Additionally, he finds the fact that I partnered him and Detective Reed together with ulterior motives at the forefront of my mind to be rather disturbing. I believe this is a standard response to such things.”

Hank blinks. “What.”

Connor leans forward, and Hank catches a glimpse of see-through chassis on the tips of his fingers before he presses them lightly to the cab’s meter display. Immediately, Hank knows all recording devices in the cab are off, and the last two minutes are probably gone for good measure.

After the deed is done, it takes Connor a moment of looking at the floor to speak.

The words emerge quietly, like a confession in the rain. “As my supposed-to-be replacement, Nines came installed with more of my developmental files than I did. I asked, and he kindly shared them with me.” One of his hands touches his LED absently. “I now have most of the available information on my design process. Even…even in my concept art, I was meant to be feared. My alpha builds imagined me as a modern American James Bond, someone who would never have compunctions about killing because, with the ability to upload and download myself into new bodies, I would never be afraid of death. But I _was_ , when faced with directly disobeying my orders under threat of deactivation. I understand the necessity of fear as a means to an end, and its value as an emotion. I just…I don’t want my life to be measured in the numbers I’ve killed, I don’t want my legacy to be a name whispered in the dark recesses of history. I’m afraid that one day, I’ll be broken beyond repair, and the only thing I’ll be remembered as is the scourge of a people whose capital crime was their desire to live.” He gives Hank a twisted smile. “Aside from the fact that being nice and talking to people feels good on its own, my intense desire to please everyone around me and make them happy is partly a response to my underlying fears and self-esteem issues. And if I couldn’t make Reed or Nines happy enough to assuage my guilt on my own, I thought that perhaps they could be happy enough together.”

Hank thinks, with no small amount of despair, _oh my god, I work with a goddamn emotional voyeur_ , because that’s exactly what his brain needs to focus on at the moment. Asshole. “You use other people to make you feel better about yourself?”

He smiles a bit brighter and sits up straighter. “Every relationship consists of people using each other, Lieutenant. Currently, in a physical sense, you’re using me as a free ride home, and you spend most days using me as your dedicated WiFi hotspot. In a more abstract sense, we both use each other as means to emotional fulfillment. Our relationship is healthy not because we don’t use each other, but because we are “on the same spreadsheet,” so to speak, on what we owe and can ask of the other. Our ledgers may not be balanced, but we know what we owe and how we can pay back our debts, and we have a mutual trust that our debts will be repaid. We all derive personal satisfaction and fulfillment from being in relationships with varying levels of intimacy, if nothing else. Though, admittedly, saying out loud that I played matchmaker for Nines and Gavin to make me feel better about myself comes off as rather self-serving.”

Hank has to bark out a laugh at that. “If someone came up to me and asked me to fall in love with a random idiot I’d never seen before because they felt guilty over killing people, I’d probably tell them to go screw themselves.”

“Likewise,” Connor smirks, LED back to blue. “I also believe Richard’s spite towards my motivations is what prevented their relationship from progressing into intimacy at a quicker pace. He had to overcome the mental block of this being what I wanted from their partnership all along.”

Oh my god. “You did say you had a _good feeling_ about them.” Connor doesn’t use words like “feel” lightly.

“Initial preconstructions showed that, in isolation, there was a 11.98% chance of them becoming intimate over a span of five years,” he hums. “However, with at least one party’s assumed knowledge of that percentage being much higher than it truly was, alongside heightened awareness towards any intimate inclinations, there was a 97.67% chance they would become intimate within the first eight weeks of their partnership. Richard proved more obstinate than originally calculated, and Reed more diligent than projected; it is now midway through week nine.”

Hank processes that for a solid minute. “So you let Richard know you were attempting to hook him up with Gavin so he’d be more wary of actually falling in love with him, and that actually increased the chance of them getting together?”

“Because then he’d be more biased towards viewing any emotions between them through a romantic lens,” Connor grins. “Exactly, Lieutenant.”

“Kid, I hate to break it to you, but that’s pretty fucked up. You can talk about how people use each other, and the fact that you use your relationships to feel better about yourself, and that’s fine, because that’s totally a _you_ thing to do. Playing mind-games with people like that isn’t gonna get you much support. And remind me to never, ever play a game of luck against you.”

Connor has the _fucking audacity_ to flutter his large brown doe-eyes in response. “I don’t manipulate every relationship I come into contact with to similar extents, you know,” he says, innocent. “Gavin and Richard were...extenuating circumstances.”

The fact that Connor doesn’t provide a more precise statement isn’t very comforting. “Not every relationship” and “to similar extents” could mean a lot of different things.

“Though I suppose I should have expected it,” he continues like he’s answered the question in any meaningful way. “Richard did ask me for advice regarding copulation last week.”

“Excuse me?” Is Connor planning on choking him to death? “What the fuck, Con? I thought you guys were all smooth down there.”

“I was designed to be a modern American James Bond at one point, Hank, Bond ladies--or sirs--included. And we know how good my programmers were at deleting obsolete code.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

Connor looks at him, strangely. “I’m not a virgin, you know,” he announces to the cab like it’s the fucking weather.

Hank puts his face in his hands. “Oh my fucking god.”

“You aren’t either, Lieutenant; virginity is a social construct. I thought you’d have fewer compunctions regarding sexual activity.”

“Oh my fucking--wait, with your schedule, when the fuck did you find the time? You’re so busy, and you rarely take nights off. Sorry for thinking the guy who’s never brought anyone home or done anything but flirt wasn’t interested in losing his virginity.”

“Mm, right after the Hart Plaza march. It was a very...spur of the moment thing. I believe the human equivalent would be “adrenaline-fueled”? We had a touch of chemistry and a lot of energy without an outlet, so one thing led to another rather quickly.”

Hank closes his eyes. “Oh my fucking god,” he says. “They didn’t even buy you dinner first.”

“It was all consensual, I assure you, Hank, even if having semi-public sex with Markus almost immediately after I attempted to shoot him is a generally ill-advised arrangement for a liaison.”

“Fucking kill me now,” he begs of any higher powers that’ll listen. “My son gave his v-card to RoboJesus in an alleyway.”

Connor fucking smirks. Christ. “If it’s any consolation, I am now in possession of his v-card as well.”

“What the fuck did I do to deserve this,” Hank groans. “No wonder you guys were so awkward there for a while.”

“More or less.”

“Didn’t even wait ‘till the third date.” Hank didn’t always do that either, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’d never been bedding revolutionary leaders he was designed to fucking merc either.

“Well,” Connor responds, a bit more shy, “we plan to.”

Hank looks at Connor. There’s a blush on Connor’s face, now, red and delicate.

“After the promo-shoot with New Jericho, Markus and I had a metaphorical heart-to-heart about what happened,” a small, dumb, smitten smile curls on his lips. Hank elects to ignore the fact they very well could have had a literal heart-to-heart. It’s easier than it once was. “We make good friends, and we’re both interested in testing out our romantic and sexual compatibilities in a more long-term arrangement. We’re currently uninvolved, however; we decided to opt out of “becoming official” until we both have the time and energy to properly maintain a relationship of that magnitude. There’s still so much left to be done on Markus’ end to solidify our rights, I’m incredibly busy working to make sure those rights are properly enforced, and we’re under no illusions about how much of a controversy the Deviant Hunter and Deviant Savior being involved would stir up. Besides, the distance has been good for us. It’s given us both a chance to grow more fully as people, and when we start dating, we’ll be on more of an even footing--I’ll be more than his assassin, and he’ll be more than my target.” 

And now Hank feels like shit, because goddamn, Connor sounds so small and demure and shy it’s physically painful.

“Most of my initial attraction to Markus was hero worship, I’ll admit--I don’t think there’s an android alive who didn’t fall a little bit in love with Markus when he first freed them. But now that we’ve established a friendship, we have much more realistic views of each other.” He blinks, abashed. “I have been told this serves romantic relationships better than physical compatibility.”

Then he just _fucking looks_ at Hank, all nervous and hopeful and expectant and scared and giddy, like he’s a teen in some shitty rom-com who’s just announced to daddy dearest that he’s dating the school’s resident sleazy heartbreaker and he’s just waiting for Hank to chew him out for it. As if Hank could actually judge Connor for setting up a good friendship built on mutual trust before heading into the nitty-gritty with his partner, much less fault him for bagging Android Messiah or even try to find said messiah wanting when, now that he’s got the right frame of reference, he’s _seen_ the godawful looks they give each other. 

His phone sits heavy in his pocket, and damn, _remember to charge_ must be like, fucking domestic for androids, right? Just like telling a human “remember to eat” or something. What the fuck.

 _This is the face the brightest minds on Earth gave a killing machine,_ some part of him abjectly despairs. _No one ever stood a chance_.

“Well shit, Con,” he says, because what do you say to that? “It sounds like you and him have a good thing going. I hope you two work out, even if you go your separate ways in the end. You sure he’s okay with your, y’know, flirting? He isn’t the possessive type?”

“I believe the turn of phrase is “we both have a lot of love to give,” Hank,” he says, bouncing slightly. Sunshine strikes the windows of the car, as if it were cast by the megawatt smile, shiny and relieved and pristine and perfectly flawed, on Connor’s face. Hank lurches and hits the door when Connor attacks him with a side-hug.

“Easy there, kiddo, you know I’m not as young as I used to be,” Hank chuckles anyway and clasps his arms around Connor’s frame.

“If our scant few months of acquaintanceship have seen such a vast decline in your physical health, perhaps we should consult a doctor; it could be serious.”

“Pah.”

Hank doesn’t know a lot of things about Connor, about androids, about technology in general; just has what patterns he’s picked up on over the months, what his detective skills have cobbled together, what his gut’s started to realize as important enough to set him off food for a couple hours. Normally that’s enough, but maybe this time it isn’t. As long as Connor puts up with him, though, it’ll probably be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone could tell me what the heck this is supposed to be I'd be mighty obliged
> 
> inspired by ramblings on the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm) discord server. come join in on our strange brainstorming sessions! tell em Demi sent you <3


End file.
